1! 

Blends 
The  White 
floantains  of 

em  Hampshire 


I  am  sendi 
you  --ill   autograph 
11    Thoreau  and    I  Vi. 
a  few  years   ago,    ai 
dayL ,    I  had    the  pleaui 
with   snov/,    and    it  *; 


you  in  another  mail  a  copy  of  a  bookwhich,  I 
r  me .  I  have  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  to  read 

Mount  Katahdin".   I  missed  a  trip  to  that  mount 
lave  regretted  it  ever  since.  However,  within  a 
ire  of  looking  upon  the  Presidential  range  wh 

as  magnificent   as  you  can  imagine. 


Fred  A.  Gannon 

37  LOR ING  AVE 

SAI£M  MASS . 


a  b oo Jc which,  I  trust 
)ortunity  to  read 

p  to  that  mountain 
tor/ever,  within  a  few 
dential  range  white 
Igine. 


AVE 

SALEM  MASS . 


OUR  FRIENDS 
THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 


of 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE 


...  BY  ... 

FRED  A.  GANNON 


A  story  of  tramps  over  Gulfside  Trail,  from  Mount  Madison  to 

Mount  Washington,  by  Ernest  P.  Lane,  Albert  E.  Cole 
Wilbur  F.  Brown,  John  L.  Tudbury  and  Fred  A.  Gannon 


Copyright  1921 

by 
Fred  A.  Gannon 


NBWCOMB  &  GAUSS 

Printers 
SALEM,  MASS. 


OUK  FRIENDS— THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

It  was  on  our  seventh  trip  that  we  learned  we 
loved  the  mountains.  This  time  they  welcomed  us, 
not  as  occasional  visitors,  to  be  entertained,  dis- 
missed and  forgotten,  but  as  old  friends,  to  be  treated 
with  that  hearty  cordiality  and  kindly  sympathy 
which  is  currency  and  bond  among  good  friends. 

In  the  early  evening  we  tarried  in  the  ravine  at 
the  foot  of  Mount  Madison.  The  brook  softly  rippled 
by  at  our  feet,  the  mountains  rose  in  their  majesty 
before  our  eyes,  and  the  silvery  moon,  high  in  the 
skies,  looked  serenely  down  upon  us.  On  the  mead- 
ows and  hills  was  the  green  verdure  of  June,  and 
high  up  on  Madison  remained  a  patch  of  snow,  to 
remind  us  of  the  winter  that  had  passed.  No  won- 
der we  talked  of  the  mystery  of  the  mountains,  and 
stories  were  told  of  the  Indians,  who  never  would 
climb  to  the  summits  because  they  believed  them  the 
abode  of  their  Great  Spirit. 

We  began  to  understand  what  Whittier  meant 
when  he  wrote: 

"Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name,  a  glory  never 

sung, 

Aloft  in  sky  and  mountain  wall  are  God's  greal 
pictures  hung." 


IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  with  packs 
strapped  snug  to  our  backs,  we  strode  merrily  across 
the  meadow  and  struck  for  the  trail  that  leads  up 
by  Snyder's  brook.  To  us  it  is  among  the  most 
charming  of  the  tramps  among  the  hills.  Perhaps 
we  loved  it  most  because  it  was  our  first  tramp  to 
the  mountains,  seven  years  ago.  Yet  its  beauty  de- 
lights us  each  time  we  travel  over  it. 

Up  the  foothills  \ve  made  our  way,  pausing  often, 
for  it  is  the  better  part  of  wisdom  for  the  city-bred 
to  take  things  very  easy  the  first  days  in  the  moun- 
tains. Besides,  we  had  learned  in  experience,  that 
he  who  goes  slowest  in  the  mountains  sees  and 
enjoys  the  most. 

We  looked  at  the  brook,  dashing  down  its  rocky 
course  and  breaking  into  rills  of  silver  as  it  tumbled 
from  boulder  to  boulder.  We  looked  at  the  soft 
green  moss  on  the  rocks,  and  the  ferns  and  flowers 
springing  up  from  it.  We  looked  into  the  maze  of 
the  forest  at  the  tiny  trees  struggling  up  towards  the 
sun,  at  the  monarch  crowning  the  woodlands,  or  tum- 
bled down  to  earth  by  the  great  winds  that  sometimes 
sweep  down  the  mountain  sides.  We  turned  often 
to  look  back  upon  the  picture  of  hill  and  lake,  farm 
and  meadow,  village  and  manufacturing  town.  We 
paused  often  to  speak  of  the  charm  of  nature  and 
of  the  beauty  of  the  scene  before  us.  Yes,  the  spirit 


of  the  mountains  was  coming  upon  us,  and  that  is 
the  way  it  should  be  with  men  who  race  from  the 
cities  to  the  peace  and  power  of  the  mountains. 


STEP  BY  STEP   THE  HEIGHTS   ARE   CLIMBED." 

True  enough,  our  feet  began  to  tell  us  that  it  was 
a  long,  long  way  up  the  mountains.  The  hundred- 
yard  marks  along  the  trail  seemed  far,  far  apart. 
Yet  time  in  plenty  we  took  for  leisure  and  reflection. 
Memory  recalled  to  us  that  in  schoolboy  days  we 
raced  the  hundred-yard  path  in  nigh  to  ten  seconds. 
But  here  we  were  on  the  mountains,  tramping  one 
hundred  yards  in  ten  minutes.  Laugh  if  ye  will, 
ye  city  bred,  who  pound  the  smooth,  hard  pavements. 
The  slow  pace  is  best  in  the  mountains,  for  being  on 
leisure  bent,  we  tarry  often  by  the  way,  to  drink 
from  the  brook,  to  watch  the  birds,  or  to  look  upon 
a  tiny  flower,  a  great  tree,  or  that  vast  panorama  so 
richly  spread  before  us.  It  was  hard  to  think  of  the 
war-wounded  world  below  us. 


'THIS  HUT   HAS  A  HEART/ 


We  came  to  Madison  hut  towards  noon,  threw  off 
our  packs,  and  settled  down  to  the  business  of  house- 
keeping. Good  old  Madison  hut!  Stony  and  cold 


your  walls  may  be,  but  your  heart  is  warm,  and 
hospitality  is  joy  to  the  foot- weary  traveler.  Bacon 
and  coffee  restored  the  balance  to  the  body.  Cave 
dwellers  of  cities  may  praise  the  elaborate  dinners  of 
their  favorite  inns,  but  to  the  man  of  the  mountains 
there  is  nothing  sweeter  and  more  nourishing  than 
golden-brown  bacon,  hot  from  the  pan  at  Madison. 


A   STRONG   MAN   OF  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Making  up  the  records,  we  found  that  we  had 
journeyed  up  the  Snyder  brook  trail,  a  distance  of 
3%  miles,  in  four  hours.  Glancing  over  the  camp 
records,  we  found  this  entry:  "August  4, 1921,  Henry 
J.  Trahan  of  Berlin,  N.  H.,  carried  from  the  Ravine 
house  to  Madison  hut  this  day:  lumber,  139  pounds;, 
sack,  2  pounds;  lunch,  3  pounds;  total,  144  pounds. 
Weighed  by  Howard  Henderson  and  Lawrence  How- 
ard, caretakers." 

We  also  found  that,  July  27  of  the  same  year, 
Trahan  had  carried  102  pounds  up  the  mountains. 

No  longer  were  20-pound  packs  heavy  on  our  backs. 
At  least,  they  might  have  felt  heavy,  but  we  did  not 
dare  to  complain  after  reading  Trahan's  records. 


"A    MITE    AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

In  the  afternoon  we  sauntered  out  to  the  parapet, 
or  headwall,  between  Madison  and  Adams,  a  favorite 
retreat  with  us.  We  took  shelter  on  the  sunny  side 
of  a  ledge,  for  there  was  a  mountain  chill  in  the 
bracing  winds.  While  we  marveled  at  the  depths 
of  the  gulf  and  the  height  of  the  mountain  walls, 
we  spied  a  flash  of  light  from  the  windshield  of  an 
automobile  coming  down  the  carriage  road  on  Wash- 
ington. To  us,  it  was  like  a  fly  on  the  ceiling,  or 
better  still,  a  mosquito,  for  it  often  disappeared  from 
our  view.  We  reckoned  roughly  that  it  was  eight 
or  nine  miles  across  to  the  carriage  road.  We  were 
glad  that  we  could  watch  that  tiny  speck,  crawling 
along  the  great  mountain  side,  for  it  showed  that  our 
eyesight  was  still  good. 

An  excellent  test,  as  well  as  an  excellent  rest,  for 
the  eyes,  is  a  trip  to  the  mountains.  Eyes  tired  of 
being  glued  to  books,  figures  of  business,  and  print 
of  newspapers  day  after  day,  find  rest  when  they 
turn  to  the  long-range  views  of  the  mountains.  We 
know  that,  on  clear  days,  one  may  look  from  the 
mountain  tops  to  the  Atlantic,  70  miles  away.  We 
have  heard  that  mountains  in  Maine,  Canada  and  New 
York,  more  than  100  miles  away,  may  be  seen.  But 
what  is  a  few  hundred  miles  to  see.  Do  we  not  see 
the  stars  at  night,  a  million  and  more  miles  away  ? 


After  supper  we  went  to  Sunset  rock,  on  the  north- 
erly shoulder  of  Madison,  and  watched  the  sun  go 
down.  At  such  a  time  there  is  peace  and  mystery 
in  the  mountains  beyond  understanding.  What  is 
there  on  the  other  side  of  that  gate  of  crimson  and 
gold,  through  which  the  sun  passes  so  serenely  at 
eventide  ? 


"ALONG  A  MOUNTAIN  BOULEVARD." 

Next  day,  while  the  morning  was  yet  young,  we 
set  forth  from  Madison  huts  for  a  tramp  over  Gulf- 
side  trail,  to  Washington's  summit.  Old  Adams 
frowns  upon  us  as  we  pass.  Why  does  that  peak 
always  look  as  cold  and  as  forbidding  as  an  iceberg  ? 
We  climbed  hastily  over  its  rocky  sides  and  made 
our  course  for  Jefferson.  We  paused  here  and  there 
to  praise  Professor  Edmunds  for  making  this  paved 
trail,  which  we  are  pleased  to  consider  the  best  boule- 
vard in  the  mountains.  Certainly  it  is  the  highest 
route  of  traveling  in  ISTew  England,  it  being,  we 
figure,  nearly  a  mile  above  the  sea.  And  if  a  man 
cannot  enjoy  the  view  with  every  step  that  he  takes 
along  Gulfside  trail,  then  he  might  as  well  lock  him- 
self up  in  one  of  those  modern  caves,  called  office 
buildings,  and  stay  there  the  rest  of  his  life,  for  he 
is  a  lover  of  nature  no  more  than  is  a  red  brick. 


On  Monticello  lawn,  by  Jefferson's  noble  summit, 
we  paused  to  look  at  the  croquet  set,  and  to  wonder 
if  any  imps  of  the  White  Mountains  ever  tried  their 
skii!l  with  it,  as  the  strange  men  of  the  Adirondacks 
with  whom  Rip  Van  Winkle  tried  his  skill  in  the 
game  of  bowls. 

By  the  side  of  Great  Gulf  we  paused  to  rest,  or 
rather  to  dream,  for  though  the  limbs  be  weary  from 
tramping,  yet  the  mind  will  not  close  to  the  vision 
that  nature  spreads  before  us.  Seven  times  in  seven 
years  have  we  tarried  by  the  Great  Gulf,  and  each 
time  do  we  marvel  anew  at  its  wonders.  We  believe, 
as  Thoreau  wrote,  that  "Nature  was  here  something 
savage  and  awful,  though  beautiful." 

How  big  is  it?  Could  we  hide  our  home  town 
in  it  ?  Could  one  man  be  seen  among  its  trees  ? 
Could  an  army  of  men  hide  in  its  forests  ?  Is  Spauld- 
ing  Leke  a  big  mirror,  or  is  it  the  pool  of  clear  water 
thai  we  saw  when  we  visited  it?  How  long  were 
those  great  boulders  sliding  down  the  mountain  side  ? 
What  started  yonder  slide  ?  Does  not  the  shadow 
of  the  clouds  upon  the  trees  look  like  an  elephant, 
a  whale,  or  a  giant  hand  ?  How  long  would  it  take 
a  man  to  dig  out  this  vast  gulf?  These,  and  other 
and  other  questions  we  have  asked  and  asked  again, 
and  have  talked  over  again  and  again,  for  it  is  a 
part  of  a  mountain  trip  to  forget  the  tedious  detail 
of  business  and  to  let  fancy  run  free. 


ei 


THE     TOPS     OF     THE     MOUNTAINS     ABE     AMONG     THE 
UNFINISHED  PAETS  OF  THE  WORLD." THOKEAU. 

This  time,  there  comes  to  us  the  story  told  by  an 
old  man,  whom  we  met  at  breakfast  in  the  ravine, 
just  before  we  started  up  the  trail.  "How  old  are 
these  mountains  ?"  we  asked  him,  thinking  to  draw 
from  him  some  early  story  of  Darby  Field,  the  Craw- 
fords,  Starr  King,  or  other  early  traveler  or  settler 
of  the  mountains. 

"Some  say  20,000,000  and  some  say  25,000,000 
years,"  began  the  old  man.  "Ages  and  ages  ago  were 
they  heaved  up  from  the  seas.  The  hot  suns  of  the 
tropics  have  shone  upon  them,  and  great  trees  have 
grown  on  them,  and  giant  beasts  have  roamed  their 
forests.  Glaciers  have  rolled  down  upon  them  from 
the  arctic,  The  seas  have  surged  upon  them,  even 
covering  their  summits.  Time  and  the  giant  forces 
of  nature,  earthquake  and  avalanche,  heat  and  cold, 
rain  and  snow,  have  made  the  mountains,  and  now 
they  are  growing  old  and  wrinkled  and  are  settling 
down,  like  a  man  bent  and  wrinkled  by  years."  So 
the  old  man  told  us.  As  we  recollected  his  story  we 
gave  up  trying  to  figure  out  how  long  it  would  take 
a  man  to  dig  out  the  great  gulf.  A  man  is  only  a 
mite  in  the  mountains,  less  than  that  speck  of  an 
automobile  which  we  saw  crawling  on  the  side  of 
Washington.  Indeed,  man  is  less  than  a  mite  in  the 


mountains.  A  million  men  would  be  only  a  mite 
in  comparison  with  the  years  and  the  size  of  the 
mountains. 

"This  was  that  earth  of  which  we  had  heard, 
Made  out  of  Chaos  and  Old  Night." — Thoreau. 

Millions  of  years  were  the  mountains  in  making. 
So  we  tarried  a  while  longer  and  looked  into  that 
great  gulf,  and  upon  the  huge  mountains  towering 
above  it,  like  guardians  of  eternity.  Then  we  rose 
and  started  on  our  way  to  Washington.  Around  the 
base  of  Clay  we  passed,  and  up  the  long  slope  of  the 
hill  to  the  carriage  road,  and  thence  to  the  summit, 
arriving  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and  complet- 
ing our  journey,  which  we  made  at  the  comfortable 
rate  of  a  mile  an  hour. 

Of  the  night  and  morning  on  the  summit  of  Wash- 
ington we  will  not  say  much.  He  who  has  been 
there  will  understand.  As  for  he  who  has  not  been 
there,  let  him  picture  in  memory  all  the  sunrises 
that  he  has  seen  by  the  shores  of  the  sea,  and  all  the 
sunsets  he  has  seen  from  hilltops  of  his  home  town. 
Let  him  roll  them  all  in  one  great  picture,  and  he 
has  a  bit  of  the  picture  of  the  sun  setting  and  rising 
on  Washington. 

We  will  never  grow  weary  of  watching  the  sun 
come  up  through  the  mists  and  reveal  the  mountain 
tops,  like  islands  in  a  sea.  That  was  as  it  was  in  the 
beginning.  We  will  never  forget  a  glorious  evening 
when  the  sun  sank  in  the  west  and  two  magnificent 


rainbows  spanned  from  ravine  to  ravine  in  the  east. 
So  may  it  be  in  the  end. 

"Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  network  in  your  belting  woods ; 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your  falling  floods, 
And  on  your  knightly  brows  at  morn  and  eve  set 
crowns  of  fire." — Whittier. 


12 


THE  KEPOET  OF  THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  EECOKDS. 

After  the  sun  went  down,  we  gathered  around  the 
council  fire,  to  listen  to  the  report  of  the  keeper  of 
the  records,  for,  be  it  known,  that  making  written 
note  of  and  comment  upon,  and  contemplating  in 
retrospect  the  adventures,  experiences  and  impres- 
sions of  each  trip,  is  a  joy  of  tramping  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

Opening  his  book,  and  reading  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  the  keeper  of  the  records  read: — 

"We  first  came  to  Mount  Washington  in  1913,  and 
stood  on  its  summit,  6,523  feet  above  the  sea  level, 
or  100  times  higher  than  the  highest  hill  in  our 
home  town.  Yet  we  will  not  venture  the  comparison 
with  too  much  confidence,  for  we  have  not  climbed 
the  highest  hill  in  our  home  town. 

"We  wish  they  would  push  that  water-tank  away 
from  the  brass  plate  that  is  set  into  the  pinnacle  of 
Mount  Washington  to  mark  the  highest  spot  in  New 
England.  We  would  like  to  see  a  memorial  to  Darby 
Field  in  place  of  that  wretched  looking  tank. 

"Field,  the  first  man  to  climb  Mount  Washington, 
did  so  in  1642,  or  22  years  after  the  Pilgrims  landed 
at  Plymouth,  and  271  years  before  we  made  our  first 
visit  to  the  summit.  We  would  like  to  see  a  tower 
on  the  summit,  in  memory  of  pioneers,  trail  makers, 
and  other  leaders  among  men  of  the  mountains,  with 
the  name  of  Field  leading  all  the  rest. 

"Norsemen  and  other  early  rovers  of  the  sea,  were 


the  first  white  men  to  see  the  White  Mountains. 

"For  the  immortal  Washington  the  mountain  was 
named.  As  we  have  listened  to  some  stories  told  on 
its  summit,  we  have  wondered  why  it  did  not  crumble 
into  dust.  A  few  story-tellers  of  the  mountain  camps 
apparently  have  forgotten  the  little  story  of  Wash- 
ington and  the  cherry  tree. 

"We  accept  the  story  told  us  about  the  wind,  which 
sometimes  rages  from  80  to  180  miles  an  hour,  blow- 
ing the  door  of  the  stage-coach  office  down  to  Lake 
Sebago  in  Maine,  60  miles  distant,  for  the  teller 
showed  us  the  door  as  proof  of  this  story. 

"But  we  have  our  doubts  about  the  night  so  cold 
that  the  water  froze  in  the  kettle  on  the  stove  while 
the  fire  roared  beneath  it.  We  have  seen  notes  of 
the  U.  S.  Weather  Bureau  reports,  which  show  that 
the  thermometer  dropped  to  50  below  zero.  But  we 
have  yet  to  see  that  kettle  of  frozen  water.  We  want 
convincing  evidence  before  we  inscribe  in  our  records 
any  of  the  stories  that  we  hear  in  the  mountain 
camps.  We  know  it  was  colder  than  50  below  one 
night  at  the  Lake  of  the  Cloud  huts,  lor  we  spent 
the  night  there,  and  felt  the  cold. 

"We  accept  the  story  of  our  old  friend,  who  made 
his  first  visit  to  Washington's  summit  in  1863,  and 
his  second  in  1913,  or  50  years  later,  then  being 
accompanied  by  his  son.  We  like  to  believe  that  men 
of  the  mountains  live  long  and  well.  We  hope  to 
walk  up  the  carriage  road  in  1962.  We  have  faith 


in  Emerson's  remark:  "In  the  woods  is  perpetual 
youth." 

"Our  old  friend  who  made  the  trip  in  1863,  rode 
in  the  train  to  Lakeport,  crossed  Winnepesaukee,  and 
thence  rode  by  stage  to  the  Glen  House.  He  tramped 
up  the  carriage  road.  The  railroads  were  making 
their  way  into  the  mountains  in  Civil  War  times. 
But  the  Glen,  at  the  foot  of  the  carriage  road,  is  yet 
to  hear  the  screech  of  the  locomotive's  whistle. 

"We  have  found  most  enjoyable  the  trip  up  the 
carriage  road.  It  is  eight  miles,  rising  one  foot  in 
eight,  with  a  total  rise  of  4,600  feet.  We  have  made 
it  in  four  hours  up,  and  two  hours  down.  When 
circumstances  require  we  can  move  faster  than  a 
mile  an  hour. 

"Yes,  the  automobile  has  made  its  way  to  the 
summit;  so  has  the  railroad,  which  climbs  the  west- 
erly slope,  stopping  at  the  tip-top,  though  wags  of 
the  early  New  Hampshire  legislature  offered  to  give 
it  a  franchise  to  run  to  the  moon.  What  a  climb 
that  would  be ! 

"But  we  hope  we  never  will  get  caught  riding  to 
the  summit,  unless,  perchance,  Passaconaway  should 
come  along  from  Indian  spirit-land  with  his  team  of 
trained  wolves.  We'd  ride  with  him  and  his  wolves; 
otherwise  we  will  walk,  walk,  walk,  and  take  our 
leisure,  and  enjoy  the  eternal  grandeur  of  the  great 
hills. 

"We  have  roamed  around  the  summit,  to  Tucker- 
man's  and  Huntington  ravine,  to  the  Lake  of  the 


Clouds  and  the  Hanging  cliff,  to  Boott  spur,  Lion's 
head  and  Alpine  gardens.  There  is  no  better  way 
to  spend  a  day  in  the  mountains.  Yet  we  will  except 
that  glorious  trip  along  Gulf  side  trail. 

"We  have  tramped  up  Tuckerman's  ravine,  tarry- 
ing at  Hermit  lake,  and  later,  resting  by  the  side 
of  the  Snow  Arch,  which,  in  spring  time,  is  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  glacier  that  we  have  in  ISTew 
England.  An  ugly  little  glacier  it  is,  too.  Already 
has  it  caught  several  reckless  victims.  "Trespassing 
Forbidden,"  should  be  the  sign  upon  it. 

"We  have  looked  into  Huntington's  ravine,  but 
have  not  yet  undertaken  to  scale  its  steep  walls. 
We've  heard  that  the  record  for  slow  traveling  was 
made  on  these  walls,  the  trampers  advancing  100 
feet  in  12  minutes.  So  our  mile  an  hour  gait  is  not 
so  slow  after  all. 

"We  have  camped  in  Great  Gulf,  and  have  come 
up  Six  Husband's  trail.  But  never  again  will  we 
camp  in  the  woods  when  there  is  a  chance  to  climb 
to  the  summits  and  look  down  upon  the  rest  of  the 
world  below. 

"We  have  seen  the  great  hills  in  the  bright  sun- 
light, in  the  blue  haze,  and  in  the  pure  white  snow, 
in  the  blankets  of  fog  and  the  drenching  rain.  All 
seasons,  all  times,  they  call  us,  and  they  welcome  us 
as  good  friends;  for 

"Nature  ever  faithful  is 
To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness." 


16 


"THE  HEART  OF  NEW  ENGLAND." 

The  engineer  begged  a  few  moments  of  our  time, 
to  speak  of  the  White  Mountains  as  "The  Heart  of 
New  England."  He  asked  that  the  keeper  of  the 
records  make  note  of  his  words. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  he  began,  "that  the  White 
Mountains  are  a  glory  of  New  England  and  an 
inspiration  and  joy  to  all  who  visit  them. 

"But  I  would  speak  of  them  as  the  source  of  New 
England  enterprise  and  prosperity,  the  heart  of  our 
industrial  and  social  life. 

"Our  great  hills,  taking  up  a  sixth  of  our  area, 
are  a  natural  advantage  of  more  value  than  most 
of  us  realize.  Imagine  that  they  were  leveled. 
Then  we  might  become  as  bleak  as  the  Arctic  and 
as  dry  as  the  Sahara.  For  our  mountains  temper 
our  winds,  checking  the  cold  from  the  north  in  the 
winter  and  sending  us  down  cool  and  refreshing 
breezes  in  the  summer. 

"Our  mountain  tops  catch  the  mists  that  rise 
from  the  sea,  and  condense  them,  and  send  them 
down  to  us  in  rain.  Our  mountain  forests  hold  back 
the  snows  of  winter,  and  send  them  forth  in  dashing 
brooks.  The  brooks  form  our  large  rivers,  and  the 
rivers  are  a  source  of  abundant  energy,  which  we  are 
learning  to  make  into  electricity,  with  which  to  turn 
our  factory  wheels  and  light  our  streets  and  homes. 

"I  might  give  you  the  figures  of  our  total  New 
England  water-powers,  but  figures  are  dreary  in  a 

17 


place  like  this,  where  the  energies  of  nature  go  on 
for  unceasing  years.  Yet  I  will  say  that  I  hope  for 
the  time  when  our  New  England  rivers,  coming 
down  from  out  the  mountains,  will  provide  us  with 
all  the  electrical  energy  that  we  desire,  and  our  New 
England  forests,  growing  on  the  mountain  sides  and 
along  our  rivers,  will  provide  us  with  lumber  for 
all  our  houses  and  all  our  manufacturing  industries. 
"I  would  speak  to  you  more  at  length  of  the 
economic,  or  dollars  and  cents  value  of  the  mountains 
to  New  England,  but  the  hour  draws  late.  So  I  will 
beg  that  you  trampers,  who  have  enjoyed  the  moun- 
tains as  a  playground,  will  also  consider  their  eco- 
nomic value,  and  do  all  in  your  power  to  guard  and 
extend  the  mountain  parks  now  held  by  the  United 
States  Forestry  Service,  the  Appalachian  Mountain 
Club,  and  kindred  organizations,  for  these  mountains 
are  the  heart  of  our  New  England  industries." 


18 


"THE  POET  s  GOOD  NIGHT." 

As  we  were  about  to  saj  Good  Night  to  one 
another,  the  poet  offered  as  a  thought  for  us  to  take 
back  to  our  homes  with  us,  this  verse  from  Whittier : 

"Your  unforgettable  beauties  interfuse 
My  common  life.    Your  glorious  shapes  and  hues 
And  sun-dropped  splendors  at  my  bidding  come, 
Loom  vast  through  dreams  and  stretch  in  billowing 

length 
From  the  sea  level  of  my  lowland  home." 


